Silas dropped to one knee.

  Pain flared across his chest like a struck match catching dry fuel. His vision narrowed for a second, teeth grinding as the wound protested the shift.

  He breathed through it.

  Then he pushed himself back to his feet.

  Tim stepped up beside him, dagger loose in his hand. The other three hung back several paces, forming a nervous half-circle—close enough to watch, far enough to run.

  “You sure you can do this?” Tim asked.

  “Of course,” Silas said, adjusting the makeshift bandage. “Little pain never hurt anyone. Sometimes it’s the best motivator.”

  Tim snorted. “Yeah? Just don’t die on me.” He jerked his chin toward the open field. “If you drop, that thing’s coming for me next. And I am not getting trampled to death by a four-eyed pink sheep.”

  Silas almost laughed.

  Almost.

  “Relax,” he said. “Think of it like a game.”

  “A game that took a bite out of your chest?” Tim shot back. “Hard pass.”

  The banter did its job.

  It steadied the rhythm.

  Silas let his gaze drift to their target.

  The sheep grazed peacefully in the tall grass. Four placid eyes blinked independently as it tore at the ground, utterly indifferent to the five humans standing twenty yards away.

  “Remember,” he muttered without looking at Tim, “wait for my signal.”

  Tim’s voice came low and sharp. “Make it clear.”

  Silas nodded.

  He moved in slow. Not too close, not too far. Good enough not to miss.

  No sudden motions. No wasted breath.

  The pink sheep grazed under a wide blue sky, chewing lazily, four eyes drifting in different directions like lazy sentries.

  He drew the twig wand from his belt.

  It felt ridiculous in his hand.

  But necessary.

  The thought of the Fireball spell formed—and the translucent chanting window snapped open in his vision.

  He didn’t look at it.

  Didn’t need to.

  He spoke the incantation from memory.

  Each foreign syllable rolled off his tongue carefully. Deliberate. Measured. The words tasted metallic, like biting down on a battery.

  Slow.

  Precise.

  A pulse of heat throbbed at the tip of his wand.

  Then a spark ignited—small at first, no bigger than a match head—before swelling into a tight sphere of molten orange. It spun slowly in the air, licking flames curling around its surface, embers shedding like fiery dust. The fireball let out a low, hungry roar—as if it were alive and eager to be unleashed. It stopped growing after becoming the size of a baseball.

  He’d practiced the spell a dozen times already. Repetition. Discipline. Memorization.

  He might have been average at most things in life—but memory?

  That was his edge.

  History dates. Biology terms. Entire paragraphs drilled into his skull from back in school.

  And now he found another use of it.

  Here, memorization meant firepower.

  The sheep kept grazing.

  Unbothered.

  Unimpressed.

  Silas narrowed his eyes.

  Let’s hope this is a one-hit kill.

  “Fireball,” he whispered. Audible only to his ears.

  The world flashed orange.

  The fireball slammed into the sheep’s flank and detonated in a tight, concussive bloom of flame. Heat rolled outward in a violent wave, scorching the grass flat around them. The sheep’s bleat twisted into a shrill, panicked scream as fire crawled across its pink wool, turning it orange red in seconds.

  The sheep shrieked—a high, broken sound—and bolted.

  It ran blind.

  Wild.

  Hooves tore up grass as it thundered in chaotic circles, a living torch streaking across the field. Fire trailed behind it. Smoke clawed upward into the blue sky.

  The smell rolled in heavy and nauseating.

  Burnt wool.

  Burning flesh.

  Tim swore under his breath and moved fast, putting distance between himself and the frenzied beast. Silas did the same, chest screaming in protest as he retreated, eyes never leaving the target.

  Unpredictable motion. Maximum danger.

  They gave it space.

  Let the fire do its work.

  The sheep’s charge faltered.

  Its pace slowed.

  The shrieks weakened into choking gasps.

  Then, after a few long, brutal seconds, the creature stumbled once—twice—and collapsed hard into the grass.

  It lay there, flames still licking across its body, legs twitching before finally going still.

  Silence settled in waves.

  Only the crackle of fire remained.

  [You have level up.]

  Silas dropped to the ground, exhaling a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His gaze lingered on the charred remains of the sheep, smoke still curling from the blackened wool.

  “That was anticlimactic,” Tim said. Staring at the smoldering carcass as if expecting it to twitch back to life.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “A fluke, maybe?” Silas replied, though the words lacked conviction.

  Tim shook his head. “Probably not. Fire hits wool like kindling. Extra damage, I’d guess.” He smirked faintly. “This is solely based on gaming terms, of course.”

  Silas glanced at the wand in his hand. The Fireball had worked—but not perfectly. Effective, yes. Messy, certainly.

  “Probably need to test it one more time,” he said.

  At the same he then opened up his status.

  Name: Silas Kingsley

  Title: —

  Level: 2

  Class: Black Mage

  Species: Human {Z-tier}

  Health Points: 57/80

  Mana Points: 70/160

  Strength: 5

  Vitality: 8

  Defense: 1

  Agility: 6

  Dexterity: 5

  Perception: 10

  Wisdom: 8

  Intelligence: 16(+4)

  Charisma: 4

  Points: 5

  “Five points to Intelligence, please,” Silas said.

  Then the points shifted.

  Again, he dumped everything into Intelligence. No spreading it out. No playing safe. His mana pool increased immediately, the only clear, measurable change. On top of that, the class bonus added two more points automatically—another steady push in the same direction.

  It wasn’t balanced.

  It wasn’t cautious.

  But it was intentional.

  He’d made the decision the moment he chose Black Mage—no balance, no hesitation, just full commitment to a glass cannon build: overwhelming damage at the cost of durability. It was reckless, and he knew it. One mistake, one clean hit from the wrong enemy, and he’d fold fast.

  But right now, the priority was one-shotting monsters. If he could eliminate monsters in a single strike, they wouldn’t get the chance to expose his weakness. But down the line in his journey, he understood that later on his build would show more disadvantage and when that time came, he could adapt. For now, raw offensive power was the most efficient way to stay alive.

  Beside the obvious evidence of higher intelligence through MP and the brute force behind his spell, he couldn’t find any stark difference with his increase in Intelligence parameter. So for now there was no effect of higher intelligence through his senses. Still couldn’t see the mana around him or any of those fantasy thing he imagined from those popular fantasy medias. Then he wondered whether that kind of thing was something for wisdom attribute and not intelligence.

  “You okay, Silas?”

  Silas looked up and saw Arthur, extending his hand at him.

  “Not bad actually,” Silas said.

  He took Arthur’s hand and let himself be pulled upright, boots grinding into scorched grass. The burn in his chest was still there, sharp and insistent—but manageable. Pain meant he was alive. Alive meant he could keep pushing.

  They regrouped.

  Jen looked stricken. Her mouth curved downward, eyes fixed on the smoldering carcass behind them.

  “Did you really have to do that to the poor sheep?” she asked quietly.

  At first she’d argued there was no need. The rat, sure—that thing had been vicious. But the pink sheep had been grazing peacefully. To her, one was evil. The other was innocent.

  Arthur answered before Silas could.

  “They have to, Jennifer,” he said. “If we’re going to survive in this world, we don’t get to choose what feels comfortable. We do what keeps us alive.”

  Jen looked torn. Morals versus survival. She opened her mouth—then closed it. The silence that followed wasn’t agreement.

  It was acceptance trying to form.

  Tim glanced briefly at Arthur, assessing him in a new light, then looked away. Larry gave a slow nod. Practicality was something he understood.

  Silas broke the tension.

  “Up for a second one?” Silas asked. Grinning at Tim.

  Tim stared at him. “You’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  Silas shrugged lightly. “We’re stuck here.” His eyes drifted toward the open field where more pink shapes grazed under the sun. “Might as well get good at it.”

  Tim just snorted.

  He and Silas had already turned toward another pink sheep grazing a short distance away when Arthur cleared his throat.

  “Um. What about the one you killed?”

  Silas paused.

  He followed Arthur’s gaze back to the charred carcass lying in the grass, smoke still rising in thin gray ribbons. Beyond it, the dirt road stretched toward town—quiet, empty, promising opportunity.

  “I don’t know if you can manage it,” Silas said thoughtfully, “but try dragging it to the main road.”

  Larry blinked. “Hold on.” He shifted his grip on the fishing rod. “Why are we hauling it anywhere? If you’re thinking about food, we bleed it here, carve it here. Done.”

  Practical. Efficient. Logical.

  Silas nodded once. “True.”

  He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly—not secretive, but deliberate.

  “But what’s our biggest problem right now, Larry?”

  Larry scratched his jaw. “The quest deadline. The rats in the forest.” He jerked a thumb lazily toward Tim. “Him.”

  Tim didn’t react. Didn’t even blink.

  Silas allowed himself a faint smirk. “All valid.”

  He raised his hand and rubbed his thumb against his fingers—the universal sign.

  “But the real problem?”

  He let the gesture hang in the air.

  Larry’s eyes narrowed.

  Then widened.

  “Money,” Larry said.

  “Bingo,” Silas said, snapping his fingers once. “Fish would’ve been cleaner. Easier to sell. But right now?” He glanced at the charred sheep. “Pink sheep it is.”

  Larry studied the carcass like it was a ledger sheet instead of a burnt animal. His expression shifted—not disgust, not hesitation.

  Calculation.

  “From an economic standpoint,” Larry began slowly, “we don’t need the whole body. Just the high-value parts. Hide. Horn.” He nodded toward the horn protruding from the skull. “While the hide value might be lower being burnt and all. But at least we have something to sell.”

  “But,” Larry continued, “this only works if my assumption’s right about the cats in town wanting materials like wool hide and horns.”

  “That’d be ideal,” Silas said. “Except I’m pretty sure none of us knows how to skin an animal.”

  He looked around.

  Arthur avoided eye contact. Jen looked mildly horrified. Tim simply shrugged.

  Then—

  Larry raised his hand.

  Silas blinked. “What is it, Larry?”

  “I do,” Larry said calmly.

  A pause.

  “You do what?”

  “I can skin it,” Larry replied. “Properly. If you want it done right.”

  That hung in the air.

  For a second, nobody spoke.

  The easygoing fisherman. The guy who’d nearly gotten himself killed by a rat. The one who’d just tried to punch Tim’s teeth in.

  Now volunteering field butchery like it was a weekend hobby.

  “You really know how?” Silas asked.

  “Of course,” Larry said with a shrug. “When I was a kid, my grandfather used to drag me along on hunting trips. So I learn a few things or two.”

  That landed harder than expected.

  Even Tim looked up.

  “Wait,” Silas said, narrowing his eyes. “Hunting as in real hunting? Rifles, scopes, early mornings freezing your ass off?”

  “Sometimes,” Larry replied. “But Grandpa preferred the old way. Bow and arrow.”

  Silas blinked. “Hold on. You know how to use a bow?”

  Larry nodded casually, like they were discussing tying shoelaces.

  “As in actually drawing it, aiming it, and bringing something down?” Silas pressed.

  Another nod.

  “Then why,” Silas demanded, hands spreading in disbelief, “did you not pick the Archer class?”

  Larry didn’t hesitate.

  “Because I love fishing.”

  Silence.

  Arthur stared at him like the laws of logic had just been rewritten. Silas opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again—no words forming fast enough.

  Tim, meanwhile, had already checked out, eyes focused on something invisible in the air—likely scrolling through his status window.

  “Okay, fine. I get it,” Silas said, holding up a hand. “But explain something to me. You grew up hunting. Bow and arrow. Bringing down real animals.” He tilted his head. “So what happened back there with the oversized rat? For a hunter, that shouldn’t have been a problem.”

  “Ah. That.” He scratched his chin. “I’m scared of rats.”

  Deadpan.

  No twitch. No grin.

  Just a flat delivery that made it impossible to tell if he was joking.

  Silas stared at him.

  Before he could process it further, Tim snapped his fingers once in front of him.

  Sharp. Annoyed.

  “Get to the point, Silas.”

  The emotional beat shifted—humor to urgency.

  “Yeah. Right.” Silas rubbed his temple. “Larry, can you skin the sheep?”

  “I would,” Larry said, eyes sliding briefly toward Tim, “but I’m not touching that piece-of-shit’s dagger.”

  Tim gave a slow, unimpressed look but didn’t rise to it.

  Silas suppressed a sigh. Internal fractures. Not ideal.

  “Will a sword work?” Arthur asked, already drawing the blade from its sheath. Steel caught the sunlight in a clean flash.

  Larry assessed the weapon with a professional glance.

  “A bit long,” he said. “But it’ll do.”

  “Great,” Silas said with a grin.

  He clapped Arthur on the shoulder—once, firm. A silent thank-you. Letting someone else use your weapon wasn’t a small thing. In a world like this, steel meant survival.

  The grassland stretched endlessly around them, gold and green rolling beneath a wide, indifferent sky. A breeze moved through in lazy waves, bending the taller patches like ripples across water.

  Silas and Tim walked side by side toward another lone pink sheep grazing several yards away. The creature tore at the grass peacefully, four eyes scanning in lazy intervals, curved horns catching glints of sunlight.

  Silas slowed.

  Focused.

  “Identify.”

  The word left his mouth calmly, deliberately.

  A translucent window unfolded before his eyes.

  [Fleurhorn][Lv.4]

  [Type: Beast]

  [Disposition: Passive]

  [A grassland sheep originating from the continent of Rosaria, world of Elvale. Distinguished by pink fleece, four watchful eyes, and curved antelope-like horns. Despite its gentle appearance, the Fleurhorn reacts aggressively to aggressors. Its fluffy pink wool is widely used in crafted goods throughout Elvale.]

  The skill point he’d gained earlier had gone into Identify. Not flashy. Not destructive. But essential.

  If he planned to live long in this world, knowledge had to come before firepower. Materials. Weaknesses. Threat levels. Markets.

  Walking blind would get him killed. Literally.

  “So are you going to start, or what?” Tim asked, eyes fixed on the grazing fleurhorn.

  “What new skill did you pick up?” Silas asked.

  Tim glanced at him—briefly—and saw the smile. He ignored it and returned his attention to the sheep.

  “I’d be an idiot to tell you,” Tim said.

  Silas chuckled. “Still playing the solo act, huh?”

  The words barely left his mouth before movement snapped the air.

  Tim stepped forward and seized Silas by the collar of his tunic.

  The grip was firm.

  Intentional.

  “Let me remind you,” Tim said. “I’m not here to be your friend. I’m not here for team spirit. I’m here to use this situation—and all of you—to survive. If things go bad, I walk. Simple. Don’t expect friendship. Don’t expect loyalty. We’re coworkers. That’s it. Nothing more.”

  Tim released the tunic and moved away, circling the fleurhorn with measured steps—positioning himself for the hunt.

  Silas stayed where he was.

  He straightened his collar slowly.

  Watched Tim’s back.

  The smile remained on his face.

  But it wasn’t warm.

  Not at all.

  “Strike one,” Silas said.